Silence is political

Silent mass

Inside heads is agony

Why are they

So discontented. 

So loud and angry.

And making the quietly

Contented feel something

Anything.  Writhing

Inside heads

Must be agony.  The listening

Rapid defence silent anger.


What’s a poem?

Reaching out from itself it sits square

In the brisk dusk of a bus station

Waiting for a number 44 or a 45.


I keep remembering like an elephant

Outside its stomping ground

Watching the lovers reminisce

Wondering why they feel connections


Until even they disappear and all that’s


one moment

rung through the windgap

trees airchime loud as ear held seashell

even after the tide raged

The Demise of the English Language: from Geoffrey Chaucer to Donald Trump

Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote,
The drochte of March hath perced to the roote,
I’m gonna grab her pussy
Cos she’s a piece of ass.

To a romantic

We see, we see as he hails a strange bird

In joyful abandon, we hear every word

From broad, distant sphere she falls ever nearer

And into the soul of this brave poet seer

We hear his heart pound as she falls to the ground

And swims in the fountain of kisses and sound

Caught in this moment of bliss and beyond

We hear his sweet Skylark, we hear her sweet song.  

Another sphere

Summer straddles years

Old Winter dies inside

Spring brings in the carolers

Fall’s leaves drop and rise.
Words war on the plains above

Mute as dots on snow

Translated not for earthly love

But strange and distant show.


By heart

Perched on tiptoes, filled to the brim,
Then, just in time, the drawing in

Of milky heat and daylight din,

The birches, like old urns, displayed

The awful truth, cracked and crazed,

Of beauty to poem to memory made.


Is compassion wedded to memory? In a tangle of synthetic I hold on to the flashes of static when it’s too hot for layers and wonder if solitude is not the nurtured child of forgetfulness and pride.  Sometimes I need a jolt just to make nerves meet and remember.

And that was all.

Frost crept inside the mind
Of a desperate young man
Who craved some response
And over. And under. And moves
glorious whole-some-thing
Buck-like stag-startled
Deer-shot. Anything
But this numb-fear battle-ox.

For the buckeye the winds create less havoc.
The birds are lifted out of harm’s way.
Look, most of it will mend.